


The Hollow Men

by sarcatholic



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Abandonment, Alcohol, Catholic Guilt, Christmas, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, First Time, Grooming, Human AU, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, New Year's Eve, Other: See Story Notes, Religious Content, Religious Guilt, Sadly not that kind of grooming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:34:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22166449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcatholic/pseuds/sarcatholic
Summary: Prequel to karuvapatta's "The Drowning Men." Crowley is eighteen and falling for his new employer Lucifer ... or is he falling into Lucifer's clutches?
Relationships: Crowley/Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [karuvapatta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/karuvapatta/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Drowning Men](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20481035) by [karuvapatta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/karuvapatta/pseuds/karuvapatta). 



> This fic is completed! I'm editing the other chapters and the whole thing will be uploaded within a month.
> 
> Many thanks to karuvapatta for letting me play around in the world of "The Drowning Men," for giving me feedback, and for letting me borrow some language from a scene she wrote from Lucifer's point of view. Writing this fic while I worked through some of my own queer Catholic feelings during the holidays was surprisingly cathartic.
> 
> The timeline of this fic differs slightly from karuvpatta's fic itself. Suffice to say that this starts after Lucifer kisses Crowley for the first time, but before Crowley gets new clothes.
> 
> Title is inspired by T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men"
> 
> Heed the tags, dears.
> 
> EDIT 31/08/20: Made a few line edits for spelling and consistency. This particular story is done, BUT more prequels are in the works.

Crowley told himself that the upshot of having an apartment now was that he had the luxury of being able to go back to church. No more running around trying to find a cheap bed to sleep in or lugging his backpack of possessions around. And sure, the hours Beelzebub had him working behind the bar weren’t exactly conducive to a regular (or wakeful) church life. But he’d been working long enough now that he finally had a Saturday afternoon off, which meant that he no longer had an excuse to not show up to mass and confession.

If Crowley found his way to the nearest Catholic church in Mayfair, that was just convenience — not a calculated attempt to avoid his family and his parish priest. If that church happened to be a Jesuit church, that was mere coincidence. If he looked for the confessional whose label sounded least Irish and least Polish, well. He’d worry about that later.

Feeling guilty about trying to go easy on himself already, Crowley ducked into the very next confessional. His stomach felt like it was trying to tango with his heart. It was always like this. Ten years of weekly confessions had done nothing to take the edge off his terror at admitting what a fuck-up he was. It had just made the nausea more familiar.

The window behind the lattice slid open with a sharp snap. Crowley knelt down on the step, crossed himself, and muttered, “Bless me, Father, for —”

“Eh? Speak up lad.”

He swallowed hard. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he spoke more loudly, then paused. “I … I don’t actually know how long it’s been since my last confession. Maybe a month or two.”

“Well go on, then.”

“I …” He cleared his throat. “I haven’t been to mass since my last confession. I shoplifted a couple times, but never from anywhere that couldn’t afford it —”

“Try not to justify your sins, lad.”

“Oh, no, I’m not justifying, I’m —” Crowley’s mind drew a blank. This always happened during confession. He was so panicked about forgetting one or another sin that he suddenly forgot all of them. All but the one that he really wanted to forget.

He defaulted back to the list of seven deadlies. “Erm, pride, I’m sure. Sloth. Envy. I’ve used bad language and took the Lord’s name in vain. I had impure thoughts. I kissed a man. Oh, and I lied to some coppers.”

“What was that?”

“I lied to the police?”

“Earlier.”

“... I had impure thoughts?”

“Did you entertain them, lad?”

“... Yes?”

“Well, son, are you sorry for your sins?”

“I …” Crowley went silent. He’d never been asked about his penitence like this before. Never so bluntly. The act of contrition was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t find a simple _yes, I am_ anywhere. Was he sorry? He showed up here, to confession, fighting against the pit of shame in his stomach. He knew full well that what he’d done was against Church law, a betrayal against God. And yet. He coughed, trying to dislodge the words, but nothing came. All he could think of was the graceful caress of Lucifer’s fingers against his throat, the breathless lock of their lips, and the too-familiar warmth now trembling low in his abdomen.

“You still there, son?”

Crowley stood abruptly. “Sorry, I — I have to go.” He stumbled out of the confessional, nearly whacking his head against the threshold as he clattered out into the church, down the aisle, and out into the parish garden.

Why the _fuck_ wasn’t he sorry? It had been only two months — had that really been enough for him to slip so far? One temptation led to the next until he was well on the road to hell? Crowley sat down on the stone bench furthest from the sanctuary door. Maybe the Church really was right. _Intrinsic disorder_. Everything he touched turned to sin. Irredeemable. Maybe his parents were right. _Sick, pervert._ A disgusting fuck-up.

He shuddered, getting up. Well. If he couldn’t be sorry for the sins he had already committed, then at the very least he could avoid committing more sins to not be sorry for. With hands shoved into his tiny pockets, Crowley stepped out of the garden and into the Mayfair streets, needing to be as far away from consecrated ground as he could get.

*

He couldn’t make it through confession, but Crowley started going to mass again: Saturday afternoons when he had them off, setting his alarm for Sunday mornings when he didn’t. He started rotating which church he went to, always sitting in the back when he could manage, or standing against the wall, usually underneath one or another Station of the Cross. At communion time, he never received; nor did he go up for a blessing. He was the only one still among the pews, the rest lining up at the altar. He should be up there, he told himself. He should be sorry for his sins. He should be receiving the Body of Christ as an aid to resist temptation — the temptation that he heard in songs on the radio, saw in customers at the bar, and felt in every near-sleep haze, when the memory of Lucifer’s hands once again cupped his face.

*

It was a Thursday evening in Advent, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, when Beelzebub sent Crowley to see Lucifer again. Crowley wiped his hands on the bartowel, slid out of his apron, and swallowed hard. He spared a weak prayer for fortitude as he climbed the stairs.

When Crowley slid into the booth, Lucifer looked up. “You look like shit.”

“Oh. Erm.” Crowley shifted in his seat. “Sorry. Had an early morning.”

“That too, but that’s not what I meant.” He pulled out his wallet from his back pocket and plucked out a black card. He held it out across the table. “Go buy yourself some better clothes.”

“Oh, no.” Crowley lifted his hands, palms out, in front of his chest. “Thank you, but I couldn’t possibly.”

“You work here. You need to look like you do. Take my card.”

Crowley did as instructed, gingerly holding the heavy metal credit card by the edges. “Thank you, but I really can’t. I mean. It’s in your name, after all.”

“I’ll go with you. Saturday. I’ll pick you up at four.”

“I … I can’t.” In a rush of reckless piety, he said, “I have church.”

Lucifer lifted an eyebrow, smirking. “Didn’t they kick you out? Six, then. We’ll get dinner while we’re out.”

He waved him away. Crowley began to push himself up from the table when Lucifer set his hand over Crowley’s.

“Your hair,” he said, as if an afterthought; his fingers lightly stroked the back of Crowley’s hand. “It’s very nice today.”

Crowley felt his face blush red to the roots of the hair in question. “Th-thanks,” he said, and he scuttled back downstairs before he could embarrass himself any further.

*

Given how outclassed he'd felt the rest of the evening, Crowley had been terrified that dinner would be at a Michelin-star restaurant. Lucifer had greeted him at the apartment with “ _Do you go to church dressed like that?_ ” and had insisted on not just finding Crowley new work clothes, but on getting him fitted for a suit, as well — watching, with a vaguely hungry look in his eyes, as the boutique sales clerk measured Crowley in his skivvies. Crowley chalked it up to actual hunger, as shopping had gone on quite late, and the look was gone now that they were drinking after-dinner tea in the booth of an authentic but not glamorous Thai place.

Eventually, though, Crowley's raw-chafed conscience smarted more than he could bear, and he set his cup of tea back in its saucer.

“Thank you," he said. "This is really, very kind of you, and I really appreciate it.” Crowley took a breath. “But it’s too much. I can’t ever repay you …”

Lucifer waved away the rest of his words. “Your company is enough.”

Again, Crowley felt himself flushing. He quickly picked his cup back up to his face, murmuring _thanks_ into his tea.

That night, in bed, Crowley's prayers were half-hearted at best. He fell asleep now thinking not of Lucifer's kiss, but of his smooth, deep voice; the holiday lights glinting in his eyes; and the way he guided Crowley around puddles of slush, his arm wound securely around his shoulders.


	2. Chapter 2

Monday became Crowley’s least favorite day of the week. He didn’t work on Mondays, which meant he had no chance of seeing Lucifer at work. Not that he had much chance anyway, having seen him only three times now. And not that he should want to see him, Crowley reminded himself, as he checked out at the supermarket. (Where did Lucifer grocery shop? At Sainsbury’s or at Whole Foods? Or did he have someone do his shopping for him?) It wasn’t right, wanting to be held in his firm arms. Crowley sharply shook the image out of his head, hiking the bag of groceries up on his hip as he strode out of the shop.

He was met with a cold breeze and the pungent scent of crushed evergreen needles. A makeshift Christmas tree stand occupied the better part of the sidewalk: tightly bound trees leaned against the shop wall, wreaths hung from a lattice, and the broad red and green leaves of poinsettia plants danced underneath. A wistfulness seized his heart. He tried to think of how he could set up a tree in his apartment, getting a stand and lights and ornaments, the price of all of it, and the uselessness of the whole endeavor, which could never replace the fact that he wasn’t spending Christmas with his family.

Someone jostled him and grumbled on their way out of the shop, and Crowley realized he was still standing in the middle of the sidewalk. In a spur of decisiveness, he set his sack of groceries on the ground, dug out the cash from his wallet, and bought himself a wreath. He hung it round his neck as he ducked into the stationery shop next door, where he purchased four tea lights. When he was back in his apartment — sweaty but glowing — he plopped the wreath in the middle of the dining table and arranged the squat candles in the center. He struck a match and hummed a few off-key bars of “O Come Emmanuel” to himself as he lit two of the wicks. He felt a little lighter himself.

With the candles flickering behind him, Crowley turned to put his groceries away and start on dinner. He wasn’t very skilled in the kitchen yet, he admitted to himself, but he couldn’t stomach thinking about the boxed sandwiches and fish and chips he’d survived off on the streets. Still, just using the stainless appliances and enameled cookware made him feel more like a competent adult. The smell of smoke reaching him when his eggs were clearly not burning did puzzle him, though.

“Oh, _fuck_.”

He scrambled over to the table, where the wreath was merrily blazing. The smoke alarm began to screech before he realized he had to do something — but what? He grabbed one of the takeaway menus piled on the table and fanned the flames, succeeding only in setting the trifold alight.

“ _Fuck_.”

He ran back to the kitchen, grabbed the kettle, and poured the steaming water over the blaze — not without splashing a good amount onto himself. With the wreath extinguished, he tugged off his hoodie, pressing cold fingers to his scalded stomach. He glared up at the smoke alarm, still shrieking. But then, smoke still unfurled from the charred wreath, collecting at the ceiling. He reached up and fanned the wet menu at the alarm, the paper drooping and the smoke stubbornly just swirling around overhead. Were those sirens he heard outside?

“Crowley?”

He jumped. Lucifer’s voice. Crowley didn’t even hear him come in. He clutched his hoodie to his chest and turned toward the entrance. “I — nothing’s been harmed, I promise!”

Lucifer stepped into the flat, surveying the mess. In a few strides, he opened the windows, switched on the ceiling fan, and picked up another takeaway menu to wave across the smoke alarm’s sensor. The beeping soon stopped. He moved to the stove and switched off the pilot before the eggs could burn more than they had begun to.

“I’m going to dismiss the fire crew,” he said. “I’ll be back. Make some tea while I’m gone.”

*

Crowley set the teas on the coffee table. “How — what — why did you come?”

Lucifer picked up a mug and looked over the rim at him. “I live on this street, Crowley. The security system alerted me. I like to keep a close eye on what’s mine.”

Crowley sank onto the sofa. Only now did he realize he hadn’t gotten out a new shirt, and he was half-naked and freezing. “I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again. Please, don’t —” The words died in his throat. He knew he had no right to ask, or beg, really. _Fuck-up_. 

Lucifer put his mug down. “I’m not going to kick you out for a stupid mistake.”

Crowley’s blush crept all the way down to his pale freckled chest. “I miss them.” His voice was soft. “That’s why …” He waved at the scorched and sodden wreath behind them. “We used to …”

“Seems they don’t miss you at all.” Lucifer sipped at his tea. “Let me guess. It’s been how many months, and not a word from them?”

Crowley just hugged his cup to his chest. He refused to meet even his own eyes reflected in the tea. “No. Nothing.” 

“And it’s Christmas,” Lucifer mused. “The season of family, and forgiveness, et cetera, et cetera. So seldom do Christians practice what they preach.”

His throat bobbed as he drained his cup. Crowley found himself swallowing, too.

“C-can’t blame them,” he said. “It’s my own fault, really.”

“Do you really believe that?”

Crowley was silent.

“It seems to me that a proper family wouldn’t abandon their son just because of whom he loves.” Lucifer shifted on the sofa, directly facing Crowley, who now couldn’t take his gaze off the other’s pale eyes. “Especially if their son is as special as you are, Crowley.”

It took a moment for Crowley to realize he had stopped breathing. With a sharp intake of breath, he jumped up from the sofa. “Let me, erm, fill your tea.”

“Crowley.”

Lucifer stood as well, stopping Crowley’s hand on the mug with his own. Later, Crowley wouldn’t be able to say how, in a few short strides, he ended up with his back against the cool wall. But he couldn’t resist it. Nor was he able to resist the warmth of Lucifer’s lips against his own. Until his shame caught up to him, and with a heavy surge of will, he squeezed his eyes shut and shifted away.

“No,” he breathed. “Wait —”

Lucifer’s smooth voice poured into him. “What is it?”

Crowley forced his eyes open. He saw, distantly, that he was clutching the front of Lucifer’s shirt still, but he was too exhausted to disentangle himself. “It’s … not right.”

Lucifer sighed, his warm breath caressing Crowley’s cheekbones. “Does it feel wrong?”

Did it? Crowley glanced away. Feelings weren’t supposed to interfere in moral decisions, he knew that, and yet no one ever asked him how he felt. His teeth found his lip that Lucifer had just kissed, worrying at it. At the very least, he owed him an honest answer.

“No.” He looked back up. “No, it doesn’t _feel_ wrong. You’ve been so very good, and kind to me —” And he had. He’d shown him generosity and care in a way that Crowley hadn’t experienced before, without asking for anything in return. Surely that was goodness? Surely that was … godliness?

“I only treat you the way you deserve to be treated, darling.”

He squirmed beneath Lucifer’s hands on his shoulders. He both wanted them off his skin, and for them to slide lower down his naked chest, fingers filling the hollows of his ribs, his hips, his — It took enormous resolve and a steadying breath for Crowley to force the words from his throat.

“But it _is_ wrong.” He watched the light in Lucifer’s eyes dim. “I’m sorry. I — I don’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended,” he said evenly. He stepped back, breaking Crowley’s hold on his shirt and removing his hands from his shoulders. “I won’t do anything you don’t want.”

Crowley wrapped his arms around his chest, now even colder for the vacuum that separated him from Lucifer’s heat. He regretted everything. But at least, he thought, sighing, the temptation was removed. And Lucifer was still standing here. “Th-thank you.”

“I am disappointed, however.” Lucifer smoothed the wrinkles from his shirt. “You deserve better than this self-loathing you’ve been fed, Crowley.”

“It’s —” Crowley shook his head. “It’s not like that. It’s fine for you to do these things. I don’t mind.” He was trying very hard not to ramble now. “But it’s different for me.”

Lucifer looked him up and down. “Perhaps you’re just as hypocritical as the rest of them.”

Crowley’s mouth parted, throat aching to act. But he had nothing to say.

“Is there anything else that needs my attention while I’m here?” Lucifer said, buttoning his suit jacket.

Crowley shook his head, wishing he had the courage to stop him from resetting the security system and leaving with a quiet click of the door.

_Fuck-up_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the shortest chapter; the rest will be longer!

The next week at work was dismal. Crowley didn’t know whether he wanted to run into Lucifer or not, and he was driven to distraction by his own ruminations. The result was an overflowing sink Crowley had to mop up; a tipped box of sugar sachets Crowley had to pick up; and two broken glasses Crowley had to sweep up, at which Dagon had to pull him aside and murmur in his ear, “Get a grip, kid.”

When Lucifer descended the bar stairs on Friday, Crowley still didn’t know if he wanted to see him.

“You,” Lucifer announced. “You’re young, and hip.”

“I am definitely not hip,” said Crowley, carefully wiping out a clean glass. _Idiot_ , he berated himself, _why would you say that?_

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Lucifer approached the bar, leaning his long hands on the counter; Crowley’s collar suddenly felt too warm and too tight. “You are exactly the demographic we need to attract. I need you to come with me tonight and evaluate a new band to decide if it's worth hiring them to play for us.”

“O ... kay.” Crowley gently set the glass in its place behind the counter, biting back the urge to confess that he knew nothing about popular music.

“Good.” Lucifer rapped his knuckles against the counter. “I’ll pick you up at nine. Dress nice.”

Crowley spent the rest of his shift panicking about what nice what supposed to look like.

*

When Crowley let himself into the car, Lucifer looked him up and down. Crowley braced himself. After much agonizing in front of his wardrobe and several outfit changes, he’d settled on his new black suit, a black button-up, and a silvery chain that he'd guiltily bought from a church holiday bazaar vendor when he felt bad for looking too long without buying anything.

“Good choice.” Lucifer reached over and popped one more button on his shirt; Crowley flinched.

“Oh, don’t be like that.” Lucifer scowled and turned back to his steering wheel. “I’m not trying to touch you.”

Crowley didn’t know how to respond, and Lucifer didn’t say any more, so they spent the rest of the drive to Vauxhall in tense silence.

The club was all neon lights and industrial fixtures. Lucifer sat them at the bar opposite the stage and ordered a round of drinks. Crowley perched on the edge of his stool, heels hooked on the footbar, fingers tapping the stainless counter. He looked around, noticing that most of the young people in the space seemed to be queuing for something in an attached room — maybe some kind of meet-and-greet? The drinks arrived, breaking Crowley’s line of thought. Still Lucifer didn’t speak to him.

“Luci, darling, is that you?”

A graceful body followed the lilting voice toward the bar. Crowley watched as Lucifer rose from his seat. There was, suddenly, a warmth to his gestures and the movements of his face that Crowley had never seen before.

“Asmodeus. It’s good to see you.”

A firm clasp of hands turned into a loud kiss on each of Lucifer’s cheeks. Crowley stared, his chest burning with something he refused to acknowledge, his stomach sick with guilt. As Lucifer withdrew, his eyes met Crowley’s, impassively staring back. Maybe Crowley was imagining it, but Lucifer cocked his eyebrow at an angle that looked like a challenge.

“Is this him?” Asmodeus seated himself between them, still addressing Lucifer even as he sized up Crowley. “Your new protégé?”

Impulsively, Crowley stuck out his hand and shook Asmodeus’s with a fierce grip. “Crowley.”

“Asmodeus, darling.” He lightly kissed Crowley on either cheek. “Aren’t you just divine?” He ordered a drink for himself and a second for Crowley. “Have you ever thought about being a model?”

Crowley’s instinct was to laugh, but he couldn’t tell if the man was joking. He looked to Lucifer for a cue, but he was still nursing his first drink and pointedly avoiding Crowley’s eye.

“Come again?” he tried instead.

“Oh, don’t be so modest!” Asmodeus reached out and brushed a lock of hair back from Crowley’s face. “With those eyes and these cheekbones? You’d be pulling in contracts left and right. You could audition right now if you wanted to.” He extended an arm in the direction of the queue that Crowley had watched earlier. “Your face would be known to London’s most elite.”

Though Lucifer remained disengaged, Crowley stared past Asmodeus and straight at Lucifer when he said, “No, thanks. I like my job very well.”

Asmodeus laughed lightly, but there was a trace of venom to it that Crowley disliked intensely. “You’d turn down a modeling contract to keep working as — what — a busboy?”

“Lucifer is a good boss,” Crowley insisted.

“Well, well.” Asmodeus laid a long hand on Lucifer’s arm. “It seems you have yourself quite a devil’s advocate.”

Lucifer smirked at that, and shoved at Asmodeus’s shoulder. “Get out of here, you old snake. We’re here for a show.”

“But —”

“I said move along, Asmodeus. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Well!” He got up from his seat, his hand resting heavily at Crowley’s elbow. “Do let me know if you change your mind, gorgeous.”

Crowley brushed off his hand. “I won’t, but thank you.”

With an exaggerated gasp and a darling to Lucifer, Asmodeus departed.

At last, Lucifer returned his gaze to Crowley. There was an intensity to his eyes that made Crowley need to fidget with his drink. Finally, Lucifer smirked. 

“I wasn’t aware that you liked your job so much.” 

“It’s not just about the job,” Crowley said, and he blushed into his glass.

Lucifer set down his drink unfinished and tapped his shoulder. “Get up. We’re leaving.”

Crowley shook his head. “What?”

“Let’s go.”

“But — the concert — I thought — ?”

“To hell with the concert.” Lucifer stood and buttoned his jacket. “Let’s get dinner.”

Maybe it was the alcohol making him feel confused, thought Crowley, as Lucifer whisked them away in his Jaguar. Maybe Lucifer was embarrassed by him in front of Asmodeus, Crowley worried, as they sped back across the river to a late-night Indian place in Pimlico. Maybe, Crowley hoped, as Lucifer plied him with samosas, butter chicken, and sticky pastries that glittered in the candlelight at their corner table — maybe he just wanted to be alone in his company.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cn: alcohol in copious quantities is imbibed in this chapter

Christmas Eve found Crowley walking to work from another new church. With his family, he would have attended midnight mass for Christmas like every other year since he’d aged out of waving around a shepherd’s crook at the children’s nativity pageant. But today he had broken with tradition and gone to an afternoon mass, both because Lucifer had closed the club for a catered staff party, and because, well, Crowley didn’t have a family, did he? He gritted his teeth as he swiped into the metro station. He still felt fragile, like a shattered glass held together with masking tape. He had thought that a Christmas homily would be safe — peace on earth, goodwill toward men, what could possibly go wrong? This priest sure found a way, Crowley thought bitterly. He grasped an overhead handlebar as the metro car accelerated, fiddling with the sunglasses in his pocket. It wasn’t even a major part of the homily, he thought; the priest could have just forgotten that part and it would have made no difference. But there it was: _us_ against _them_. _The world_ against _God’s kingdom_. _Those homosexuals_ against _we Christians_. As if he couldn’t be both. As if they didn’t _want_ him to be both. As if they didn’t want him. What was the point, even, Crowley thought, yanking off his knit cap in the sweltering car. What was the point if there was nothing he could do to be good enough — ever?

He swiped out at Tottenham Court, picking his way across slippery cobblestones to the club. Even from outside, he could hear the music pulsating. He hung his coat in the self-serve coat-check to a techno remix of “Last Christmas,” loping upstairs to the club floor. Poinsettias lined the dance floor. Plates of hors d’oeuvres were centered on cocktail tables around the room. Crowley grabbed a couple of devils-on-horseback, popping a sweet and salty bacon-wrapped date into his mouth as he made his way to the self-serve drinks table. 

He started with wine, then graduated to rum-and-coke. By the time dinner was served — chafing dishes of sliced roast and potatoes, parsnips and swedes, braised cabbage and Yorkshire puddings, with more cups of wine — Crowley was a bit tipsy. Once pudding, soaked in brandy, was finished, he was decidedly sloshed. He found himself pulled between the poinsettias by some of the kitchen staff, and he cut what he thought was an impressive booty-swishing twist across the dance floor to “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” When he returned to the drinks to pour himself a scotch on the rocks, one of the younger bartenders (Rahab, he thought) leaned in toward Crowley and said, “Are you going to make a move or not?” 

Crowley shook his head, bemused. “What’s that?” 

“One of you needs to make a move.” Rahab nodded. “You or Lucifer. For your own good. Everybody can tell you’re into each other, I don’t understand what’s keeping you.” 

“Oh, erm.” Crowley took a hard gulp of scotch. 

“Unless you’re not actually into him?” Rahab said. “In which case, move the hell out of the way and let the rest of us have a chance.” 

“Oh, erm,” Crowley repeated, that hot feeling surging back into his chest only to dash against cold shame. 

“He’s been so much better ever since you came here, though.” Rahab leaned back against the edge of the table, crossing his ankles in front of him. “Ever since his ex, you know. Hasn’t been in good shape. Tragic, that was. But he’s much happier with you around.” 

“Is he.” Crowley’s voice was faint. He raised his glass against his mouth, staring out across the floor. Lucifer was standing at a cocktail table with Beelzebub and Dagon, who seemed to be addressing him intently. His perfect lips were curled skeptically. He lifted his eyes, briefly meeting Crowley’s gaze before Crowley looked away in panic and chugged the rest of his scotch. 

“Oy, easy there.” Rahab swatted Crowley’s elbow. “That’s not boxed wine, you know.” 

“Right.” He set the glass down and excused himself to the toilet. 

Blessedly, the two bathrooms on this level were single-stall, all-gender units. No chance of running into anyone he might have an unbearable crush on at the urinals. Crowley took his time rewetting his frizzing hair and pressing cold fingers to hot cheeks. How could being good to someone be a sin? If God was love, and love was holiness itself? Crowley leaned against the sink, staring into the mirror. Could all the church fathers be so wrong? Was it really just centuries of prejudice that made these laws? Was it even a sin to obey them? 

Crowley stuck his hands under the blow dryer and let himself out into the little hallway. At the same time, Lucifer exited the other toilet. And that’s when Crowley noticed that some arsehole had taped a hearty bundle of mistletoe to the ceiling overhead. 

He glanced back at Lucifer, hoping he hadn’t noticed, but no luck: he was currently pondering the white berries and wilting leaves. Crowley stood there, his hands going numb with nerves. Lucifer looked down at him, his eyes bright, a smirk whispering over his lips. 

“Well?” 

Crowley’s heartbeat was pounding somewhere near his ears. He broke their eye contact with a nervous laugh, swallowing down into his tightening chest. It’s just a kiss, he told himself. The early Christians exchanged them all the time, in church even. Crowley landed a light peck on Lucifer’s cheek and stepped back. The other man’s eyes darkened with a scowl. 

“Don’t mock me, Crowley.” 

“No, I —” He couldn’t disappoint him like this, he _wouldn’t_. Crowley took a breath, licked his lips, took Lucifer by the face, and kissed him full on the mouth. 

Lucifer’s lips parted, perhaps more out of surprise than anything, but Crowley took the opportunity to skim his teeth with his tongue, and suddenly Lucifer was kissing him back, hands on Crowley’s waist, pulling him closer and tilting his head to kiss him deeper. Maybe it was the scotch finally hitting his bloodstream, but Crowley was dizzy and giddy and grinning, right into Lucifer’s mouth. 

A whoop sounded across the dance floor. Crowley glanced aside and Lucifer broke the kiss when applause rose up from the crowd. Rahab punched the air. Beelzebub’s face was glowing red, and Crowley hoped it was from the half-dozen beer bottles on the table and not because they were jealous. 

“All right, that’s enough,” Lucifer barked. 

Crowley slipped out of his arms. He scuttled downstairs, grabbed his coat, and ran out into the street. 

*

Crowley spent Christmas curled around his pillow, in bed. The crying wasn’t helping his hangover, but knowing that didn’t seem to help him stop. Between the public humiliation of last night and the fact that his parents hadn’t so much as called him — not to mention all the feelings about the kiss itself that he was trying not to feel — mostly he just wanted to sleep.

He was in the middle of dozing off again when he heard a sharp rap on the front door. It was probably his neighbor downstairs, come to tell him off for coming home so late last night. But when the knock sounded again, he couldn’t help the sudden swoop of hope sailing through his gut. Had they listened to his voicemail messages? Would they surprise him with a visit?

He grabbed his dressing gown from the bedpost and stumbled out to the living room. _Oh, God, please_ , he thought, throwing open the door without even looking through the peephole.

“Oh.” He tried to bite back the gasp, but too late.

Lucifer stood there, impeccable as always, his black silk tie perfectly squared and secured with a silver serpent clip. Crowley glanced down at his own dotted boxers and terrycloth robe. He drew the front closed and listlessly tied the belt.

Lucifer’s face morphed from what might have been a glare into thinly concealed confusion. Crowley rubbed some of the teary crust away from his eyes.

“Happy Christmas,” he said, and, oh, his voice sounded thick and wrecked even to his own ears.

“You left these in the coatroom last night.” Lucifer bit out the words, thrusting a pair of sunglasses at him. “They’re expensive, don't be so careless with them.”

“Oh.” Crowley took the sunglasses. He tried to swallow around the sob that was climbing his throat. “Th-thank you.”

“Don’t do it again.” Lucifer began to leave, but Crowley croaked —

“I’m sorry.” 

Lucifer turned back. Crowley kept talking, before he could talk himself out of it.

“I’m sorry, about last night. I embarrassed you at work, and I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have done it in the first place. It was wrong.” He scrubbed his sleeve across his rewetted cheeks. “I’m such a fuck-up, I’m sorry. I don’t think I can be enough for you. You deserve better. I … I’ll pack my things.”

He couldn’t meet Lucifer’s eyes, so he hung his head instead. He felt wrung out and scared but this was the most honest confession he’d made since the last time he’d received absolution.

Lucifer softly cleared his throat. “Are you still hung over?”

Crowley nodded, biting deep into his lower lip.

“Has your family called?”

Crowley shook his head. Tears blurred his vision fully now. “I’m sorry …” His shoulders quaked, and he raised a fist to his lips. Everything was too much right now, and it was Christmas. It just made everything worse. And he couldn’t do anything about it. 

“Your family never loved you, did they?” 

A new wave of tears crested his eyes; Crowley sobbed against his fist. Lucifer pulled a soft handkerchief from his pocket and folded it into Crowley’s free hand. 

"And how could they,” he said, “when they didn’t even know you?” His hand rested on Crowley’s shoulder, warm and soothing, easing away the tension in his huddled muscles. Crowley’s heart ached for everything his family had refused him: acceptance, and understanding, assurance that he could be honest about himself and what he was. And he ached for Lucifer’s sad smile, which promised him everything he had been denied, and more.

Crowley sniffed. “’S stupid.” He wiped his face with the handkerchief. “’M sorry.”

“Let’s just forget today ever happened, hm?”

Crowley withdrew, nodding, but Lucifer reached back out to cup his dampened cheek.

“You should sleep that off,” he said. “I don’t know if Beelzebub has you on shift tomorrow, but you’re going to feel like shit if you don’t look after that hangover.”

When Crowley nodded once more, he noticed the pounding headache in his sinuses. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

Lucifer’s thumb stroked his cheek. “Happy Christmas, Crowley.”

“Happy Christmas,” whispered Crowley, and shut the door.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are several implied sex acts and other possible triggers. See the End Notes for a full list.

New Year’s Eve meant all hands on deck behind the bar. The club was hosting a masquerade party for the public, and all the staff were obliged to dress up as well, which was how Crowley found himself rinsing glasses with the new dish-washer Andras while wearing a foil and feather mask from Poundland. As midnight neared, Crowley was pulled from the back to fill simple drink orders, fetching cans of cider and pouring drafts while Rahab and the others mixed drinks.

It was ten to midnight when Lucifer approached the bar. It was funny, Crowley thought to himself, how he could recognize Lucifer even in an elaborate dragon-inspired mask. He didn’t need to size up how Lucifer’s embroidered silk jacket was clinging to his toned silhouette to recognize him, either, but he allowed himself the glance anyway. No harm in admiring God’s creation, right?

“Can I get you something?” Crowley asked.

“Make me a drink,” Lucifer said, tapping the bartop. “Surprise me.”

“I’m only on tap duty,” said Crowley, wiping his hands on his apron, “so you’ll have to wait till Rahab is done, but I’ll send him over to you.”

“Darling, no.” Lucifer took a just-vacated seat. “You make it.”

Crowley again wiped his hands, now beginning to sweat. He glanced at Rahab and Leonard and Preta, busy shaking ingredients and straining drinks and adding items to patrons’ tabs. If the bar owner told him to mix a drink, he couldn’t possibly get in trouble, right? Unless the bar owner didn’t like the drink, of course. This felt like a trap. And yet, when he looked back at Lucifer, he was staring back, his eyes glittering and unblinking behind his mask, the faintest curve to those sculpted lips Crowley both did and didn’t want to desperately kiss again. His heart stumbled behind his ribs. Once more, he palmed his apron, then got to work.

Crowley retrieved a glass from the refrigerator and set it on the worktop. He didn’t know many cocktails — he hadn’t been to univ and he was only barely legal enough to order them, but he didn’t have the money or the time to buy fancy drinks on his off hours. But a gin and tonic was just that, wasn’t it? He didn’t know any of the proper proportions, but he could wing it.

He stacked clinking ice cubes into the glass. Poured a shot of Hendrick’s over them. Found the soda gun labeled _Q_ and filled the rest of the glass. He retrieved a lime from the basket, halved it, squeezed one end into the glass and sliced a garnish from the other. He glanced over at Lucifer, who now had that hungry look in his eyes again, but they weren’t on the glass, no — they were fixed on him. Crowley’s swallow stuck in his throat. He mixed the drink with a straw, then — as he’d seen the others do a hundred times — plugged one end with his fingertip and lifted out a sample to taste. Lucifer was practically drinking him in as Crowley slipped the straw into his mouth, and Crowley knew it, and Crowley knew that Lucifer knew that he knew it, and had the flimsy foil mask been suffocating him this much all night?

With a trembling hand, Crowley set the glass down in front of Lucifer. “Let me know what you think,” he said, the scripted language coming to him automatically. “If you don’t like it, we can make you another.”

Lucifer raised the drink to his lips. A bead of condensation dripped from the glass, rolling down his finger. It disappeared into the fold between hand and thumb. He tilted the glass, taking a sip, his Adam’s apple sliding up and down his throat, muscles contracting and releasing. Crowley’s heart felt like it might pound through his ribs. Lucifer set the glass down, his tongue sliding out to chase the last drops of flavor on his lips.

“Could use a dash more of lime,” he said.

Crowley grabbed the other half of lime and gently squeezed it over the glass, juice spilling from the fruit. Lucifer grasped his other hand, balanced on the bartop. His hand inched up to Crowley’s wrist, cooled fingertips finding his quivering pulse point.

Lucifer leaned in toward him. “Are you always this good on your first time?”

His voice was pitched low so that only Crowley would hear, but still Crowley blushed hot beneath his mask. His tongue was inexplicably heavy. “I — I don’t know.”

A single finger traced down Crowley’s wrist, his palm, over his fate line. Crowley gasped. Lucifer looked back up at him, tilting his head. Then he got up and took his drink with him.

Crowley caught himself breathing hard when Leonard elbowed him in the back. “What are you doing? It’s nearly midnight, get back to work.”

*

Around two in the morning, the crowds had begun to thin, and Crowley hung up his apron for the end of his shift. He clocked out on the bar computer, but before he could exit, Lucifer found him again, this time with his mask hanging at his side.

“Stay and have a drink with me.”

“I really shouldn’t,” Crowley said. He binned his now-limp mask.

“Just one drink. It’s on me.”

“I should really be in bed.” Crowley unpinned his badge and tossed it into the basket by the register. “I have mass in five hours.”

Lucifer leaned over the bartop. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I can’t. Really.” Crowley slipped out from behind the counter. “But thank you.”

“Crowley.” Lucifer’s fingers caught his hand again, weaving between Crowley’s own. “Won’t you do this one thing? For me?”

Crowley looked up, into those arctic eyes, then down at where his fingertips squeezed white and hot against Crowley’s freckled skin. His breath skated over Crowley’s cheekbones.

“One drink,” Crowley agreed.

“Rahab!” Lucifer called. “We’ll have two more gin-and-tonics over here!”

Crowley settled onto a bar stool, with Lucifer’s arm tight around his waist.

*

A splitting headache and the smell of coffee woke Crowley. He rolled over and cracked his eyes, a wave of nausea and confusion hitting him at the same time. He wasn’t in bed — he was lying on a sofa, under a soft blanket. And — he realized with a jolt of horror — those were his clothes folded on the coffee table. Crowley peeked under the blanket. His checked boxers were still on, at least, but it didn’t diminish his creeping anxiety.

“You awake?” Lucifer’s voice.

Crowley scrambled to sit up, his head made dizzy by the efforts, and to pull the blanket around his bare shoulders.

“You really can’t hold your alcohol, can you?” said Lucifer, lightly, as he came into the room. “Here, hold out your hands.” He placed a steaming mug of whitened coffee in one hand and dropped a collection of pills into Crowley’s other. “Aspirin, paracetamol, and caffeine. You’ll thank me later.”

Crowley dutifully cupped the pills into his mouth, swallowing them down with a careful sip of coffee. It was sweet and the perfect temperature, warm enough to soothe but not too hot as to burn his tongue. “What time is it?” His voice creaked.

“After three.” Lucifer sat down on the sofa beside him, stretching an arm across the back behind him. “Have a nice nap, Sleeping Beauty?”

“Oh, fuck,” Crowley said into his coffee. “I’ve missed mass.”

Lucifer laughed softly, and the incongruity of the words were kind of funny, weren’t they?

“What happened?” asked Crowley. “Last night? Last I remember we were drinking.”

“And then we drank some more, and by the closing time you were in no state to take yourself back home.” Lucifer brushed Crowley’s sleep-warm cheek with a thumb. “So I brought you here.”

Crowley clutched his mug. “We … we didn’t …” He nodded, hesitantly, at his neatly folded clothes. “... Did we?”

“Of course not.” Lucifer turned toward him. “I told you I wouldn’t do anything you don’t want. Unless, of course.” His arm dropped from the back of the sofa to Crowley’s back. The weight tugged the blanket down, exposing the arc of Crowley’s neck to the air. Lucifer’s fingers found the edge of Crowley’s shoulder, tracing circles into the soft flesh. “Unless you wanted to.”

Crowley reached for the phone balanced on top of his clothes. “I need to find another mass to go to.”

Lucifer plucked the phone back out of his hands. “Why do you do this to yourself, Crowley?”

“Do what?” he protested.

Lucifer ran his fingers through Crowley’s tousled hair. “You keep dragging yourself to church, you cannot possibly want to.”

“Of course I do.” Without his phone, Crowley didn’t know what to do with his hands. He clasped them both around the mug, fingertips white under the pressure.

“Why. What do you think you get out of it?” His head tilted, but he was smiling — or was it a smirk?

Crowley chewed over what to say. “It’s part of making a community.”

“And your community doesn’t want you. They’ve made that abundantly clear, haven’t they?”

“We’re … supposed to keep trying anyway,” he said into his mug.

“That’s not wanting to, Crowley.” Lucifer shifted, leaning closer. “Your priests say self-abuse is a sin, but I think they picked the wrong kind. You’re just hurting yourself, Crowley.” The backs of Lucifer’s fingers brushed his neck. “Do you even know what you want?”

“I …” The sound stuck in his throat. “I don’t know …”

Lucifer ducked his head close. His voice was dark and sweet and warm. “I think you do. Don’t listen to them. Listen to yourself, Crowley.” He pressed hot fingers to the pulse pounding on Crowley’s throat. His breath grazed his flaming cheekbones. “What …” He kissed his temple “... do you …” He kissed his jaw “... want?” He kissed his lips. His teeth tugged lightly on Crowley’s lower lip before he pulled away, looking deep into Crowley’s eyes.

A broken whimper escaped his mouth. Of course he wanted this. He’d been forced out because he wanted this, he kept going to church because he wanted this but … not like this? Or did he? 

Lucifer removed Crowley’s mug and straddled his thighs. He leaned into his ear, lips brushing the shell of it as he whispered with hot, damp breath. “Do you want this?”

“N-no …” A hitch in his breath half-strangled the word.

Lucifer cupped Crowley’s neck, his other hand sliding down to scratch a nipple that instantly hardened. Crowley gasped.

“Because I wouldn’t do anything you don’t want,” Lucifer breathed. His fingers slotted between Crowley’s ribs, the other thumb in the hollow of his exposed hip, caressing the sharp bones. Gooseflesh spiked across his skin.

“Of course,” said Lucifer, hands shifting lower, “if you said you didn’t want it, you wouldn’t need to confess at all.” Fingertips grazed the soft flesh at his waistband. “Wouldn’t have to tell the old man all your _filthy desires_ , your _depraved needs_ , your _sinful actions_.” They slid underneath now, tangling in coarse, curled hair. Crowley’s breath stuttered. “But that would be a lie, wouldn’t it? You don’t really believe what they say, do you?” His hand found Crowley hard. He looked up with a dark gleam in his eyes. “You do want it.”

Lucifer worked him over with one hand, the other steadying Crowley’s quivering body by pushing his shoulder into the sofa back. Crowley could no longer tell if his head was pounding from a headache or the blood thrumming in his ears. His breath caught. An aching tension squeezed all the way up into his stomach, his lungs, his throat and he still couldn’t tell if he wanted to squirm away or deeper into Lucifer’s grasp.

Lucifer stopped. He began to slide his hand away. Crowley caught his wrist.

A brilliant grin flashed across Lucifer’s face.

“Lay back, darling,” he said into his ear, and he leaned his hand into Crowley’s chest to lower him. “I’ve got this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Either implied alcohol abuse or implied non-consensual drugging, depending on how you read it
> 
> \- Implied sex acts: on-screen hand job and off-screen anal. Very little is described; the little description that exists is very oblique.


End file.
